


Something More

by Eilit



Series: From Brittle Iron to Valyrian Steel: The Forging of a King [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilit/pseuds/Eilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been something more once. Someone more. Had someone. Slumped against the rough sandstone pillar in the mid-day heat, back burning from the fiery whip, those thoughts slid away from him, replaced only with the image of the dead girl's broken body seared forever in his conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pit

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing fanfic. I really like Stannis as he is such a complex character. This particular story falls in the middle of a much longer story (Stannis/Sansa) that I am composing, but I felt that this could stand alone as well. Please feel free to comment. Thanks!

The hot Essosi sun beat down upon the current spectators seated above Toqqazz Na'Zari's fighting pit, located in the poorest section of the city of Tolos. Encircling the large pit, easily 50 feet across, was a sandstone wall approximately 8 feet tall. The only entrance to the pit itself was a stout wooden gate, reinforced with iron straps, located at one end of the pit, which opened onto a tunnel that led to the staging area located beneath the seating.

Narrow alleys, crumbling red brick walls, open stinky sewers and cloth-walled shacks all surrounded the sandy sunken fighting pit. The dust swirled around, mixing with the smell of the sewers, unwashed bodies and meals cooking (often fish) to create a ripe, clinging stench that never seemed to leave one's nose.

Yet every ten nights, the wealthy and poor alike streamed through the claustrophobic, malodorous alleys to pay witness to one of the most exciting attractions in the city - the hand to hand "Sha Wu" fights.

Toqqazz's Sha Wu fights were considered unique in Tolos - no animals or weapons were ever allowed in his pit. While this allowed more of his fighters to live considerably longer and more useful lives, Toqqazz's motivation was singular - greed. Good fighters cost him gold. Additionally, the considerable variety of weaponless fighting styles employed by his slave-fighters kept the excitement of the crowd buzzing, thus ensuring heavy betting and payouts.

The Sha Wu fights normally took place in three stages - junior fights, general melee, and then the main events. The rules constantly changed. Sometimes the fighters could only strike with their fists, other times they could only strike with elbows, knees, or with kicks. Occasionally the fights' rules dictated only a certain number of punches or kicks could be used; after that, only grappling or wresting moves were allowed. Constantly changing the conditions or restrictions of the fights kept Toqqazz's fighters smart and alert, quick to rise to a challenge and more resilient and able to handle unexpected situations. Thus, they survived years longer than most other pit fighters.

The junior fights gave new fighters a chance to gain experience and prove themselves. The junior fights were never fought to the death. Instead, the fighters had to be able to fight for a specific amount of time. If a fighter was knocked unconcious, he automatically lost. If both fighters stayed concious and fought for the alloted time, the judges, and sometimes the crowd, would determine the winner. Toqqazz's very junior slave fighters, usually youth between the ages of 12 and 15, often fought each other. Oftentimes other fight stables would enter their junior fighters, including those normally accustomed to weapons fighting, for the chance to gain additional experience. Additionally, freemen who wanted a chance to prove themselves in the ring were allowed to challenge the junior fighters - for a fee, of course.

After the junior fights finished the open melee was announced. This was one of the more exciting events, as there could be as many as thirty fighters in the pit at one time all vying for victory. The rules were simple: 1. No killing. 2. No weapons. 3. Last man standing wins. Junior fighters from all over the city participated in this round. This was the chance for the stable masters to view other stable's fighters skills, and for the bookies to rank the fighters for future betting. The fighters' performance in the pit determined their value and future odds at the betting tables.

The main attraction started shortly after the melee had concluded. By then the sky was completely dark. Burning torches mounted on posts lit up the entire pit. These bouts were fought by two men at a time, always from different stables. These were the senior fighters. An elaborate ranking system developed by the pit masters and bookies determined which fighters would enter the pit and who they would fight. Unlike the other rounds, the only rule in these fights was that no weapons were allowed. Any moves were acceptable, and death often was the end result of a particularly vicious fight.

Today was different. No fights were staged. Only Toqqazz's slaves and household members occuppied the seats surrounding the pit. Approximately 200 men and women sat silently, nervous and apprehensive. Guards stood sentinel in a ring along the uppermost seats, ensuring everyone within stayed put. The air hung over the pit like heavy canvas - hot, still, oppressive, suffocating. Not even the normally ever-present winds themselves dare interrupt the forthcoming proceedings.

Toqqazz strode to the center of the pit, then turned to address the crowd.

"Last night the fighter called Laes Jahazdo (Storm Eyes) won his tenth straight senior fight, against the top ranked fighter of Moroq Fa'Hazak's stable. After witnessing such an impressive victory, I realized his bloodline and abilities are unique, and our stable is privileged to count him as one of our own. I offered Storm Eyes a gift to honor him, but he refused to accept and make use of that gift. No fighter of mine has ever refused such an honor. After today, no one ever will again."

Toqqazz gestured to one of the guards at the gate. The massive door opened, and a brown skinned Dothraki girl with almond shaped eyes was led to the far wall of the pit, where her bound hands were tied to a ring set in the stone. She was taller than most Essosi women, even though she was no older than fourteen or fifteen. Obviously afraid, still she stood silently, waiting and watching.

"I intended for Storm Eyes to breed with this Dothraki girl, as any offspring they create would be tall and strong. You all know that I look to the future, and intend to develop the strongest line of fighters Tolos has ever seen. This little impediment will not hinder me."

Gesturing again, the pit master called out, "Bring him forth!"

Toqqazz watched impassively as his newest pit fighter was hauled up to the whipping post by two particularly burly guardsmen. This man was much older than most of Toqqazz's fighters, possibly past the age of forty. His short receding black hair and close-cut beard were liberally sprinkled with silver and white. Frown lines had permanently etched themselves into his forehead, and his face had taken on the weathered appearance of a life-long sailor. His head and bare torso were tanned a deep red-brown, while old white scars from various blade cuts scattered across his chest and arms stood out in stark contrast. This man was far more than a simple slave - he had obviously once carried a sword and fought as a warrior.

A foreigner with piercing dark blue eyes, he towered above most other pit fighters in Tolos. Three parallel scars stood out on his left cheek. Dark red, 4 inches long, deliberately and precisely placed, they stretched from under his eye out towards his jaw and ear. A black demon's mask brand, indicating his dangerous and violent demeanor, dominated the right side of his face. Toqqazz himself had branded this slave, as he had branded all of his top fighters. All in all, this fighter was terrifying to look upon. Impossibly tall, powerfully built, decisive and highly skilled, he alone had already won enough fights during his first three months in the pits to keep Toqqazz living in luxurious comfort for the next year. That was the only reason the slave was currently being chained to the whipping post, and not headed for the chopping block. Those winnings did not negate the need for punishment.

Walking up to the post, whip in hand, Toqqazz addressed the large fighter.

"I give you one more chance to change your mind. There is the girl, right in front of you. If you take her here and now, you shall not be punished."

Defiantly the slave glared at Toqqazz, and shook his head no. Everyone thought that Storm Eyes was mute, as no one had ever heard him say a word. It was obvious that he understood their Valyrian dialect, as he had always followed directions and orders without difficulty. Until last night, that is, when he openly defied Toqqazz by refusing the "gift".

"Very well. You have made this choice, not only for you, but for the girl as well."

The guards raised Storm Eyes' bound hands over his head and tied them to an iron ring set in the whipping post. They also strapped a leather belt around his waist and secured him tightly against the post. Bound in this manner he could not move at all. His back was facing outwards, away from the post.

The bound fighter jerked when the sound of a cracking whip reached him, but he had not been struck. Yet. Toqqazz was warming up, getting used to the feel of the bullwhip. CRACK! CRACK! Twice more the sound jolted through him, but no pain followed.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Looking up at the assembled people, the bound pit fighter could see anticipation and fear flash across their faces. At that moment he knew that the next time he heard the whip crack, the pain would surely accompany it.

CRACK! This time the bound man arched his back in agony, face contorted, gasping, as the whip cut into his broad back. Again and again the whip cracked. On the tenth strike, Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of Westeros, finally bellowed out loud with anger and pain as he reflected on how he managed to end up here.


	2. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis reflects upon the events that brought him to Essos.

Rain, wind and large waves pounded the three-masted schooner. The storm had blown up suddenly two days ago, tossing the ship about like a bobbing cork. Unbeknownst to the captain or crew, the wind and current had steered the ship far to the south of its intended destination. Even now the ship was still caught within the tempest, and the crew had no idea how much longer the ship would hold together.

Captain Miloris descended from the treacherous deck to his quarters at the stern of the ship. Of Braavosi stock, the grizzled captain had navigated the Narrow Sea for nearly fifty years. He was intimately familiar with every shoal, coastline, current and port. Hesitating momentarily, the normally staid captain nodded to the two queasy looking knights standing watch outside the door and requested permission to enter. Miloris had ceded the berth to his royal passenger when they set sail from White Harbor.

Entering the cabin with some trepidation, the captain observed its current occupant. Wearing simple black-dyed homespun and leathers, eschewing all forms of jewelry or insignia, King Stannis Baratheon looked no different than any common mercenary. The king was currently staring out one of the portholes into the inky darkness.

Early on in the voyage Miloris learned that King Stannis detested idle conversation, preferring short direct talks that cut straight to the point. The captain did not look forward to delivering his ominous news, but realized his best option was to simply spit it out.

"Your Grace."

Turning towards him, the tall king regarded Miloris with a stony expression set in a fierce visage. Three scars cut across one side of his face, making his appearance even more intimidating. His harsh voice cut through the still room. "Captain."

"Some cracks have appeared in the hull of the ship. Water is seeping into the lower hold."

"How much time left?"

"Perhaps two hours, perhaps two days, Your Grace."

"Assuming we are still afloat at daybreak, assess our current position as best as possible and make for the nearest shore."

"Aye Your Grace."

Turning away from Captain Miloris, the king bent his head as he turned a small object over in his hand. Miloris recognized the dismissal for what it was and quit the cabin. Nodding to the knights, the king's only companions on the voyage, the captain made his way towards the First Mate's quarters.

Looking down, Stannis regarded the small piece of stag horn held in his hands. Smooth and white, a relief image of a direwolf had been carved into it. Sansa had gifted it to him on the morning he quit Winterfell for White Harbor.

_The red haired young Lady of Winterfell stood with the rest of the keep's denizens as they bade their king farewell. Stannis strode with long quick steps over to Sansa, who stood out in front of the crowd._

_"Wolf-Girl". He spoke softly, for her ears alone._

_Reaching up, she slipped a leather thong with a small stag-horn pendant over his head. Not caring that there were easily two hundred pairs of eyes watching them, Stannis bent his head to touch his forehead to hers, reaching up to comb his fingers through her hair. Closing his eyes, he breathed in her scent, recalling the previous night they had spent together under the Weirwood tree, when he made her his wife in the manner of the First Men and the Old Gods._

_Straightening up and opening his eyes, Stannis saw that Sansa wore no cloak against the cold. His gold trimmed black cloak served only to identify him, as he wore warm furs beneath. With a mischievious look in his eyes that only she could perceive, Stannis whipped his black stag cloak off and wrapped it around Sansa's shoulders. The crowd gasped, and the Wildings cheered. Now his claim on her was made public for all to see._

A shudder reverberated throughout the ship, followed by numerous loud cracking sounds. Slipping the leather thong with the pendant back over his head, Stannis quickly strode to the door and yanked it open.

Addressing his knights, he said, "Remove your cloaks, armor and sword belts now."

"Your Grace?"

Stannis frowned and glared at them for questioning his order. "This ship is breaking apart. Do you wish to drown?"

With wide eyes the knights hastily obeyed.

"Follow me now to the deck. Better to be washed off the top than to be trapped beneath. After you are in the water try to find a piece of debris to hold on to. That will be your only hope of survival."

An experienced sailor himself, the king knew that most of the people on board the ship would drown. Quickly the three men ascended to the deck of the ship. The sky had turned to a muted dark grey, heralding the approach of dawn. The rain had ceased falling, but the waves continued to toss them about. Sailors scrambled this way and that, some already abandoning the ship. What few rowboats that had been strapped to the side were already launched and bobbing away from the doomed ship.

The ship listed violently to starboard, dipping into a large swell. Looking up at the wave looming above the ship Stannis realized that the ship was lost, and they would all be washed into the angry sea. Moments later the wave crashed over the ship, sweeping everyone into the water. Sputtering as he surfaced, Stannis watched as the ship broke up and sank beneath the waves. Shortly afterwards a larger piece of debris with rigging ropes attached drifted within his reach. Pulling himself aboard the makeshift raft, Stannis lashed himself to it with the rope as best he could. Now all he could do was wait, and float with the current.

The intense heat roused him from whatever state of semi-conciousness he had settled into. Opening his eyes, Stannis observed with some amazement that he was still alive and attached to his raft. The sea had calmed itself, the clouds drifted away, and now all he could see was the dark blue ocean and the bright blue sky, all the way to the horizon. The sun beat down mercilessly. He was alone. Or so he thought.

Pulling himself up into a seated position, Stannis spotted a ship bearing down on his location. He sighed in relief as it grew larger and larger, knowing that he had survived this particular battle with the sea. Perhaps his ancient stormlord bloodline had played a role in keeping him alive. But Stannis quickly dismissed that idea as fanciful and foolish.

As this new ship approached his raft Stannis watched three men launch a skiff and row over to him. They spoke to him in such a rough Valyrian dialect that he could barely make out one word in five. This sounded nothing like the High Valyrian his Targaryen grandmother had taught him. Stannis opted to remain silent and preserve his anonymity for the time being. If they knew who he was they might kill him on the spot. The sailors pulled him onto their small boat and rowed back to the ship.

Hungry, dehydrated and exhausted, Stannis barely managed to pull himself up the ladder to the deck of the large ship. His legs gave out and he collapsed in a heap. The sailors behind him merely laughed, and then they lifted him back up to his feet. Looking around, his heart sank as he realized this vessel was in fact an Essosi slaver's ship.

A vicious looking man wearing a fair bit of gold jewelry strode over to where Stannis was standing. He appeared to be the captain as sailors scuttled out of his way. Pulling a knife, the man cut Stannis' shirt and doublet off, leaving him bare chested. The man examined Stannis as a potential buyer might examine a horse.

"Westerosi barbarian, eh?" The slaver spoke the common tongue of Westeros with a thick accent. "Now you are slave. You are tall and strong. You fetch high price at auction." He spoke to the men holding Stannis in their bastardized Valyrian tongue, who then dragged him to a holding pen below decks.

*********************************************************************************************

Strapped to the post, back burning from the whip's sharp bite, Stannis' thoughts flashed quickly through the events that seemed to have led him here: the battle for Winterfell, Sansa, the storm and shipwreck, the slavers, the auctions near Volantis. He yelled out in agony and despair as his thoughts turned once again to his wolf-girl.

The whip ceased its cruel mission, but Stannis hardly noticed as his pain overwhelmed all other senses. Toqqazz approached Stannis and cut him down. Stannis immediately crumpled onto the ground at the base of the whipping post. A guard then retied his hands to a lead attached to the base of the post. 

Waving to the guards at the gate, Toqqazz raised his voice. "Let them in."

Breathing heavily, Stannis warily, wearily watched as six particularly brutal fighters from other stables strutted into the pit.

"Observe the results of your folly, Storm Eyes. Cut her loose!"

Free of her bondage, the Dothraki girl immediately ran, trying to dodge the various men in the pit. The six fighters chased her down. Once caught her and threw her to the ground. She struggled mightily, but he quickly overpowered her. Angry and aroused, he quickly turned her over and ripped off her clothing. Then he violently took her.

The other fighters jockeyed for position as she screamed and struggled. Toqqazz observed the terrible proceedings without emotion. Stannis, on the other hand, finally found his voice. He struggled, shouted and screamed in both High Valyrian and Westerosi.

"Damn you! She was innocent, she did nothing wrong! This is not justice!" His words fell on deaf ears.

Stannis pulled so hard on his bonds that blood seeped out from the leather cuffs wrapped around his wrists. Glaring at Toqqazz, he ground out, "Punish me instead."

Contemptuously, Toqqazz turned to address Stannis. "Oh, but I AM punishing you."

Again and again the violent pit fighters beat, brutalized and violated the poor girl. Stannis continued to fight against his bonds, shouting words until he lost them, then just roaring primaly with rage until he had no voice left at all. The household slaves seated around the ring watched in horror. The other girls weeped and wailed with tears streaming down their dusty faces. By the time the horrific spectacle was over, the Dothraki girl was mercifully dead.

Stannis collapsed to the ground, emotionally and physically wrung out. He recalled his hard fought victories at Winterfell and the Wall, his recovery from his injuries, the long slow development of attachment between himself and Sansa Stark, the lords of Westeros bending the knee and declaring him their king.

He had been something more once. Someone more. Had someone. Slumped against the rough sandstone pillar in the mid-day heat, back burning from the fiery whip, those thoughts slid away from him, replaced only with the image of the dead girl's broken body seared forever in his conscience.

A guilty whisper fluttered on the wind. "Forgive me, Wolf-Girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that this is a 'teaser' story that will tie into a much longer and more detailed story that will tell the story of Stannis' loss and recovery, redemption, enslavement and subsequent liberty, and even love.


End file.
